Tides
by callensensei
Summary: One-shot missing scene from "Forget Me Not." Has amnesia erased all the Skipper's memories: even his memories of Gilligan?


**Tides**

The glowing moon lay low and huge in the night sky, caressed by the nodding fronds of the palm trees. Again and again it pulled the mighty ocean as the huge waves thundered in to shore.

In the moonlight that streamed into his hut's window, Gilligan lay curled in his hammock, fingers gingerly tracing his damp, aching head. Dimly he wondered whether the vision of Mrs. Howell, standing over him with a horrified look on her face and a cracked, leaking coconut in her hand, could all have been a dream. But the sweet smell of the sticky substance in his hair could only be one thing.

"Skipper?" he murmured weakly.

"Huh? What?" There was a snuffly half-snore beneath him. "Are you talking to me?"

"Mrs. Howell just tried to brain me with a coconut."

"What?"

"And I think she must have tried it when I was down in the lower sack too."

"Who's Mrs. Howell?"

Gilligan sighed, sagging in the hammock, and shut his eyes. Even before the knock on the noggin, his skull had begun to throb every time he'd had to explain things to his amnesiac big buddy. "The rich lady. You know, with the hats and the gloves?"

"Oh, yeah. Funny sort of dame. Seemed nice, though. What in the world would she hit you for?"

"Search me." Trying to ignore the roaring inside his head, Gilligan listened to the hypnotic rush of the surf. The tide must be really high tonight, he thought distractedly.

"You know, Gilligan-Skipper—"

"It's just Gilligan," Gilligan said, trying to keep it simple for both of their sakes. "You're the Skipper."

"Oh. Yeah. I am the Skipper." The big man repeated it like a mantra, but didn't sound convinced. "People keep telling me that, but it just doesn't register. Like those people out there. I mean, they seem like nice enough folks and all, and that red-head, well, heh – sure, I'd like to get to know her a little better, but I don't remember meeting them before. They're like a lot of friendly strangers."

"Funny," Gilligan murmured. "A few months ago, that's how I thought of them, too." He paused and swallowed. "Am I just a friendly stranger too, Skipper?"

Jonas Grumby shifted uncomfortably at his tone. "Well...you're sure a swell little guy, all right..."

"But you don't remember me, do you?"

The Skipper shook his head. "Nope. Sorry." He shifted again, frowning. "You don't sound so good. Are you all right?"

"My head hurts." Gilligan slid out of his hammock, knees nearly buckling as his feet hit the dirt floor. He clutched the hempen weave for support but it didn't offer much, and he sagged until he felt a big hand under his rib cage.

"Take it easy there, little guy." When his hand made contact with Gilligan's chest the Skipper started as though he'd touched a live wire, and as Gilligan lurched over to the water cask the big man paused to stare at his own hand. Frowning, he wiggled his fingers for a moment, then clutched the bamboo support pole and clambered to his feet. "Say – you look like you did get a crack on the head!"

"You're telling me." Gilligan plunged the dipper in and poured the water over his head, trying to get rid of the stickiness, and the throb. "Maybe this is all just a bad dream."

The Skipper peered at him. "Maybe we ought to go and see that smart fella. Maybe he's got some medicine or something."

Gilligan shook his head and winced as a canon went off in his brain. He closed his eyes and poured more water. "We don't have to wake the Professor. You've got some aspirin in your sea chest."

"I do? Well, let's get it, then. You take on any more water and you'll drown!"

Gilligan staggered over to the little table, the Skipper following close behind. When the first mate slumped and nearly missed the chair the Skipper instinctively grabbed his arm to guide him to safe harbour, but the instant Gilligan was safely moored the Skipper pulled back his hand to stare at it again. Gilligan, his own hand over his eyes, didn't notice.

The Skipper's troubled gaze now turned to Gilligan himself, and he pursed his lips before moving to lift the sea chest. When he dropped it on the table with a heavy thump, Gilligan groaned. "Oh, sorry," murmured the Skipper, and opened the lid with surprising delicacy. The moonlight was bright enough to see by, and he rifled through the chest's contents, exclaiming at none of them, until he finally pulled out a small, rattling bottle. "Ah... here we go. 'Kills Pain Fast.' This should do the trick."

He twisted the cap off and set the bottle on the table, but Gilligan made no move towards it. The Skipper's eyes narrowed with worry. "Here – let me get you something to wash it down with." He filled a coconut cup with water from the cask, but when he brought it to the table, Gilligan still hadn't moved. With a shake of his head the Skipper sat down and picked up Gilligan's hand. And the instant he did so he froze, staring at the first mate in fearful wonder as the hushed roar of the distant waves echoed around them.

At last Gilligan stirred, his other hand falling from his face. "Did you say something, Skipper?"

The words snapped the Skipper free and he quickly tapped two aspirins into Gilligan's palm. "There." As he snatched his hand away, the old sea-dog's voice was almost gruff. "You get those down the hatch. That's an order."

A sad smile ghosted over Gilligan's face. "Aye-aye, sir." He obeyed and wiped his lips on the back of his hand, staring blearily at the glint flashing from the Skipper's gold pinky ring. "You remember Pop, Skipper?"

"No. Did I know your dad?"

"Not my dad, yours. You called him Pop." Gilligan wobbled a finger at the glinting digit. "He gave you that ring."

The Skipper was grateful for the change of subject. He turned his hand over, frowning as he fingered the thick, heavy gold. "Mmmm. Nope, don't remember. Nice ring, though. Stuck on there darn good too. Looks pretty old."

"Two hundred years."

"Is that a fact?" The Skipper raised an eyebrow in polite interest. "Well, I'll be."

"Been passed down from father to son...only you don't have a son," Gilligan added.

"Oh. Then who'm I going to leave it to?"

There was a pause. "Who knows?" said Gilligan quietly. Hastily he gulped the rest of his water as he felt his throat tightening, and only when he could trust himself to speak did he turn to the sea chest. "So...uh...you still don't see anything in there that rings a bell, Skipper?"

"In here? No. Not exactly anyway." The Skipper rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Funny thing about amnesia. That smart fella of yours told me that there's different kinds. With my kind, I can remember things I know how to do. I just can't remember where or when I did them, or who with." He peered into the chest and pulled out a sheaf of paper. "Take this sheet music, here. I know I can sing, all right. I even know this song. I just don't remember any particular time that I ever sang it."

"Mmmm." Gilligan glanced briefly at the title of the song – _Anchors Aweigh_ - and that sad smile tugged at his lips again. "You still talk Navy, Skipper. Don't you remember being in the Navy?"

The Skipper shook his head. "Not really. I don't even remember standing on a ship. I could tell you all about ships and the sea, but it feels more like I read a book about them." He looked up at the bright glow in the window. "I can tell you that it's the moon that's pulling in that high tide right now. Boy, just listen to that surf."

Gilligan sighed and closed his eyes, resting his forehead in his hand again. "You taught me everything I know about the tides."

"I did?"

"Yeah...how the moon pulls them. How you can't fight them. And there's ebb tide too...the tide goes both ways."

"Mmmm. How about that gravity, eh?" The Skipper shook his head in wonder. "Funny to think how something you can't even see could be that strong. Even the ocean can't fight it."

Gilligan's hand slipped down to toy listlessly with his empty cup. "You pulled me out once when I got caught in an undertow. I'd have been a goner if you hadn't. 'Don't you ever underestimate the tides again or I'll break your neck,' you said."

The Skipper did a double-take. "I saved your life?"

"Yeah." There was another pause. "But you don't remember that either, do you?"

It was almost, _almost_ an accusation. Nonplussed, the Skipper looked back at the sea chest. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Don't give up on me so fast, huh? Let me take another crack at it. Maybe there's something else in here." He peered into the chest again, rummaged around and pulled out a small black leather notebook. "What's this?" he asked, passing it to Gilligan.

Gilligan leafed through the pages. "Looks like an address book. Lots of names and phone numbers and stuff like that."

"Any of my other old buddies in there?"

"Don't think so...unless all your other old buddies were girls."

"Girls? Lemme see that!" The Skipper snatched it back and thumbed through it, a huge grin spreading across his face. "Well! Looks like I'm quite the sailor, all right! Look at all these names! It's like a female United Nations!" His laughter boomed about the little hut.

"Skipper..." Gilligan pleaded, wincing.

"Oh...sorry." The Skipper held the book out eagerly. "But, come on now.... do you know any of them? Did I ever tell you about them?"

"Not really. You said it'd have to wait 'til I got older."

"Oh." The Skipper's face fell.

Gilligan leaned his chin on his hand, frowning as he tried to remember. "Sometimes at the bar you'd tell the guys about them, though. When you were in a really good mood."

Now the Skipper brightened. "Yeah? What'd I say? How about this one?"

Gilligan looked to where the Skipper's broad finger was pointing. "Maria? She was from Mexico. I think you liked her cooking."

"I did? What did she cook?"

The first mate shrugged. "Mexican food, I guess. You always said she was one hot tamale."

"Yeah?" The Skipper's finger moved down the page. "And this one? Where'd I meet her?"

"Mei Mei? Um...either Hong Kong or Singapore. You had a fight in a bar over her."

"Oh? How come?"

"Don't know. I just know the guys called her Mayday because she was always trouble."

"Heh – sure got around, didn't I? What about this one? Sounds Hawaiian."

"Leilani?" Gilligan nodded. "Yeah, she was. She was a hula dancer with a grass skirt. You said you liked her dance best when there was a good stiff breeze blowing."

"You don't say? Wonder why. Boy, I sure wish I could remember some of these gals!" With a wistful sigh the Skipper tossed the book back and pulled out a faded deck of playing cards. "Say...poker's my game. I know that much. Where did I play?"

"You were the best poker player in the seventh fleet."

"Yeah? Did I win lots of money?"

"I'll say. You told me once you could have bought yourself your own destroyer ."

"Wow! You mean I'm loaded?"

Gilligan snorted. "Naw, you blew it all on those girls. Especially this one in Manilla – don't remember her name – but you were real crazy about her garden."

"I was?"

"Yeah. At least you were always telling the guys what great big melons she had."

"Are you sure?" The Skipper looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed and patted his ample belly. "Oh, come on, now. You're putting me on. I don't think I got this from eating fruit! Seems to me I'm more of a meat and potatoes man!"

Gilligan smiled. "That's for sure. When we lived in Honolulu we saw more beef than a cowboy."

The Skipper licked his lips. "Now that's more like it. Hamburg... steak and ribs...that's something I do remember, even if I don't remember where I ate it!"

Gilligan leaned back, his smile broadening. "_I_ don't even remember all the places where we ate it! We must have hit every steak house in town!"

"Did we have a favourite?"

"You bet. A little place on Ala Moana Boulevard. We used to go there once a week – sometimes even twice."

"Must have had some good meals there, huh?"

"And how. Soon as the tourist trade was done for the day, we'd moor the Minnow in our slip and head down for the blue plate special. I couldn't get over how much you'd put away; it's a wonder you didn't eat them out of business!"

The Skipper chuckled, leaning his chin on his hand. "Where else did we go? You said something about a bar."

"Oh, yeah! That's right! Barnacle Bill's!" The young sailor shook his head fondly. "I'd almost forgotten it."

"What was it like?"

"It was a blast!" Gilligan tilted back into the beam of moonlight and beamed almost as bright as the moon itself. "All the navy men used to go there and play darts and pool and cards and stuff, and there was a big colour TV so we could watch all the football games from the mainland. And you said the waitresses there had the best melons in Waikiki." Gilligan frowned for a moment. "Funny...here on the island you always have pineapple."

"Must have had some good times there, huh?"

"I'll say. On my twentieth birthday you bought me my first beer there. And my second, and third." The young sailor chuckled in spite of himself. "Boy, what a party that was! You really pulled out all the stops! Paper hats, noise-makers, "happy birthday" spelled out in a great big banner over top of the bar...the only thing we didn't have was the cake dance."

"Cake dance?"

"Yeah. Gunner's mate Entwhistle told me afterwards that he and the guys wanted to hire a girl to jump out of a big cake and dance for me, but you told them nothing doing."

"Why?"

"I dunno. I guess you didn't want to ruin a good cake."

"Did we have any cake?"

"Nope – neither one of us."

"Why not?"

Gilligan laughed. "You were in a _really _good mood that night, Skipper. First you sang "Happy Birthday" at the top of your lungs, and then you started in on every sea chanty you ever knew. You were having too good a time to stop and eat!"

"So what happened to you?"

Gilligan rolled his eyes. "I got scuttled, Skipper! You know what a pair of wiseguys Entwhistle and Wokowlski were."

The Skipper didn't, but it didn't seem to matter. "What did they do?"

" 'Aw, the old Skip's such a mother hen! We'll make a man of you, kid!' they said. So whenever you weren't looking they kept slipping me shots of rum."

"Oh, my gosh. How many did you have?"

"Enough to float a battleship, I think. All I know is that by the time you got to the sixth verse of "What Will We Do With the Drunken Sailor" I got sick as a dog and threw up all over your new shoes."

The Skipper roared with laughter. "Oh, brother! Was I sore at you?"

"At first, yeah, but as soon as you figured out what happened, you blew up at them! I never saw two guys look so scared! And then you got all weepy and said it was all your own fault and you should have been looking out for me. You sat up with me all night until my hangover wore off, and after that you watched me like a hawk every time we went to Barnacle's. 'Don't want my first mate falling overboard again,' you said."

"First mate?" the Skipper asked, a little more quietly.

"Yeah. I remember when you introduced me to all the guys at Barnacle's – all your old shipmates from the war. 'Fellas, meet Gilligan: my first mate, and my little buddy. He may look scrawny, but let me tell you, he's all navy.' And all those war heroes said, 'Any mate of the old Skip's a mate of ours. Welcome aboard!' You were such a pal about that, Skipper. I'll never forget it."

Now it was the Skipper's turn to smile sadly at the wistful tone in the young man's voice. "Wish I could say the same." He glanced back into the chest one more time, hoping there might be something to jog his memory. The corner of a picture frame was sticking up, and he pulled it out.

When Gilligan saw what it was, he gasped. "Aw, Skipper. I never knew you kept this," he said softly. "And you even framed it!"

"Wonder why I did that? Was it some kind of special occasion?"

"It was just before we took the Minnow out on her first tour." Gilligan looked at their mirror images, grinning up from inside the frame. "You should put it up in here!"

The Skipper looked hard at the photo of the two sailors, striving to pierce through the haze of his memory. It was no use. He shrugged in exaggerated good humour. "Well...you know, I guess I don't need to, since you're already here. And if I want to see myself, I can always go look in the mirror!" He looked at the picture again. "Gosh, we sure look happy, don't we? I sure wish I could remember."

"Yeah." Gilligan looked down at the happy pair for a few minutes longer and gave a deep sigh. "Well, it's getting pretty late, Skipper. I – I guess we ought to hit the sack." Slowly he got up and headed for the hammocks.

"Sure." The Skipper closed the sea chest's lid.

When Gilligan lifted his knee to try to climb into the upper hammock, the effort was still too much and his leg dropped back down again.

"What's wrong? Your head still sore?"

"A little. Don't think I can make it. Skipper, would you mind giving me a hand?"

"Sure." The Skipper looked around. "You want me to get you a chair or something?"

"No, I—" Gilligan's voice trailed off in embarrassment. "Well...usually you...I mean you only do it if I'm sick or hurt or really tired, otherwise I'd feel pretty silly..."

"Do what?"

There was an awkward pause. "Just pick me up and put me in the hammock."

The Skipper looked at Gilligan as though he hadn't heard right. Then he burst into good-natured laughter. "Pick you up and put you in the hammock? Are you kidding me? What do I look like, your mother?"

"You don't even look like my father," said Gilligan, with as much dignity as he could muster. "But you still do it sometimes. And you don't even warn me first, and it startles the heck out of me."

Still guffawing, the Skipper pushed his blond hair back and shook his head. "You really have got to be kidding. I'd never do that in a million years. Of all the silly—"

Gilligan felt his headache starting to come back and rubbed his forehead, eyes closing. "Have it your way, Skipper. But would you mind? Just this once, okay?"

"Oh." The Skipper softened. "Well, if you're still not feeling okay, sure. I guess it won't do any harm. Here goes, then."

Gilligan looped an arm around the Skipper's broad shoulders and a moment later felt his feet leave the ground as the Skipper hoisted him effortlessly. "Thanks, Skipper. Now just put me in—"

Gilligan froze in mid-word as he caught sight of the big man. Jonas Grumby was staring straight ahead with a look of mingled awe and terror. Slowly he began drawing in great deep breaths as though fighting for air. Gilligan sensed the Skipper's grip on his chest and knees tighten, and felt the Skipper's heart pounding against his side. The first mate even fancied he could hear that powerful beating over the roar of the surf.

"Skipper?" He whispered. "Are you okay? What's the matter?"

The Skipper stared down at him, not relinquishing that grip for one moment. "Who _are _you?" he whispered fiercely.

"What do you mean?"

"How are you doing this to me? I feel like a drowning man!"

"You do?"

"Yeah!" He gasped again. "It's been hitting me every time I lay a hand on you, ever since I saw you were sick! Scares the living daylights out of me!"

Gilligan broke into a gentle smile as the ache in his head and heart faded. "I know what you mean. Skipper – maybe you'd better put me down now."

"What? Oh. Yeah. Good idea." The Skipper heaved Gilligan a bit higher and with a visible effort, relinquished him into the hammock. It swayed slightly as Gilligan looked at the Skipper's still troubled face in the glow of the full moon.

Slowly the Skipper settled back into his hammock, and for a few moments both men were silent. Finally, the Skipper spoke up hesitantly. "Uh, Gilligan-Skipper?"

This time Gilligan didn't correct him; he only smiled. "Yeah?"

"What in the world was that? Felt like something huge was pulling me! I couldn't fight it!"

"Like the tide, Skipper?"

"The tide?"

In his mind's eye the first mate pictured the dark, white-capped waves surging onto the beach, caught forever in the mysterious pull of the moon. "Like you taught me. Pulled by something invisible. Even the ocean can't fight it." His shifted onto his side, his fingers curling around the edge of the hammock. "And it goes both ways."

"Huh?"

Gilligan's smile grew broader. "Don't worry about it, Skipper. We'll go and see that smart guy tomorrow. He's bound to think of something to get your memory back." He pulled his cap down over his eyes as the moonlight washed over him, and let himself drift with the endless rhythm of the waves. "Goodnight, Skipper. See you in the morning."


End file.
